Any Known Blood

by Lawrence Hill

  “I didn’t mean to embarrass you. I just wanted to make sure you were all right. We had planned to meet, and you didn’t —”

  “What did you tell my father?”

  “Nothing much. He did most of the talking.”

  “Didn’t he ask you how we met?”

  “He did. And I explained that we had only met recently.” “You led him to believe that we’ve seen each other before?” “Not entirely. I just evaded the question.” “I don’t know why I was so nice to you. I never should have said I’d see you at Howard.”

  “That’s a fine thing. I missed my ride back to Lincoln to see you. I skipped lunch to see you. I have to take a bus back to school out of my own budget. But if you don’t wish to see me, all you have to do is say so.”

  “I don’t wish to see you.”

  “I’m afraid I can’t accept that statement.”

  Rose started to giggle. “All right, let’s walk. You got me out of helping make dinner. That’s something to thank you for. Let’s walk, let’s talk. You’ve got nerve, I can say that for you. Most boys, they see a pretty face, they can’t function. They lose their dignity. You’ve got that. Too much dignity, perhaps, but at least you’ve got it. Now tell me about yourself, Langston.”

  They walked for forty-five minutes — long enough that even Dr. Bridges stared as they came back in. Rose’s father excused himself and retired to the study. Mrs. Bridges asked Rose to help her with the table. Langston sat by himself in the parlor, relieved not to have to think or prepare his words for a moment.

  Dinner was served. Mrs. Bridges called upon her husband to bless the table. Langston bowed his head, and found the blessing thankfully secular. Pope-ism — that’s what his father called the Catholic faith. Candles, ornaments, trinkets, rituals. Pope-ism.

  Dr. Bridges got the conversation around to war. Langston was glad to discuss something so inoffensive. What role should America play? And, within that role, what was the role of the American Negro? What danger did the Germans offer? How far would they go? Langston was thankful that he’d been devouring newspapers since he’d been paid seventy-five cents a week at the Afro-American. He had plenty to say. Plenty to show the Bridgeses of Washington that he could manage talk of war.

  Over dessert, Rose stunned her parents and Langston. “Mother and Daddy, Langston is taking the bus back to Lincoln tomorrow morning. Could we put him up in our guest room tonight?”

  “That’s all right,” Langston said. “I have made arrangements for this evening, it is not necessary to —”

  “Nonsense,” Dr. Bridges said. “We won’t leave a Lincoln man out in the cold.”

  Again and again, on the bus back to school the next day, Langston played the scene in his mind. He was with Rose at the central bus depot.

  “I’d like to see you again,” he said.

  “My parents wouldn’t permit it.”

  “With due respect, you are not indentured to your parents. If you truly have no desire to see me again, just tell me.”

  She laughed heartily. “And I know just what you’ll say.” She lowered her voice to mimic him. “‘I’m afraid I can’t accept that statement.’“

  “I’d like a kiss before I get up on this bus.”

  “Am I required to agree?” She stood close and looked in his eyes.

  “One kiss and one date. Friday in three weeks. At the Howard cafeteria.”

  “I’ll shake your hand.”

  “You have a lovely hand, Rose.”

  “Are you trying to grow a mustache?”

  “I might be. Why not?”

  “I’m not fond of facial hair.” “So you’ll kiss me, if I don’t grow one?” “Let’s talk it over the next time we meet.” “Friday in three weeks?”

  “All right. All right.”

  He took her hand again, and resolved not to ask once more for a kiss. It was beneath a Lincoln man to beg.

  Rose leaned forward and kissed him on both cheeks. “I like you, Langston Cane.”

  He climbed onto the bus. Or he floated. He actually floated up those steps.

  Hazel Bridges met Rose on the wide staircase with the stained oak banisters.

  “Your father and I would like to have a chat with you, dear.” “Now is as good a time as any.” Rose followed her mother to the parlor.

  Each sat in a wing chair. Rose wished her own chair’s wings would jut out far enough to protect her face from the scrutiny of her parents.

  “He’s an interesting boy,” her mother said.

  “Yes, quite.”

  Rose’s father said, “He’s an upstanding lad, and I have nothing against him. But I wouldn’t like to see your studies compromised.”

  “I’d like to know how serious his intentions are,” her mother said.

  “Very.” It gave Rose pleasure to see her mother’s mouth fall open.

  “What, precisely, does that mean?” her father said.

  “He likes me. I like him. How can you support the vote for women — how can you pretend that you want me to have an independent mind — and then try to tell me whom to see and not see?”

  “The boy holds himself like some African prince!” her mother said. “Some prince! I’ll bet he’d never seen running water before he sauntered into our house and filled his stomach.” “Hazel, please,” said Rose’s father. “This boy’s father is no jackboot minister. He holds a doctorate in divinity from Lincoln University.”

  “We only care about your future,” her mother said. “Your father and I will let you transfer to Radcliffe next year, if you promise not to see him again.”

  “You’re trying to bribe me,” Rose said.

  “We love you, Rose. This is only for your own good.”

  “You mean it’s for your own good. Good night.”

  Langston had his one suit cleaned and pressed. He was wearing it now. He was the only person in the Howard University cafeteria wearing a suit.

  Rose showed up on time, but wouldn’t stand near him, or even let him take her hand. “My mother nearly read your letter. She would have opened it, if I hadn’t picked up the mail first.”

  “It was a perfectly innocent expression of my sentiment.”

  “I couldn’t kiss you, and now I’m so blue. If my mother had read that, she would have had a conniption.” Langston thought it wise to keep his mouth shut. “If you want to write me again, do it care of the Catholic Women’s Study Group at Howard. Don’t put a return address or a name on the envelope. Get a woman to write on the outside of the envelope, so it won’t look suspicious.”

  “Let’s go for a walk,” Langston said.

  Rose let her hand brush against his as they walked outside the chapel. “Mother wants to send me to Radcliffe next year, just to get me away from you.”

  “I shaved off the mustache.”

  “Didn’t you hear what I just said?”

  “You had my full attention, and you still do.”

  Rose faced him calmly. She allowed a hint of a smile. Langston placed his fingers on her shoulders, leaned in, and kissed her lightly. She did not part or move her lips, but she did not back away from him.

  “You’re sweet,” she said.

  “Men aren’t sweet.”

  “That was a compliment. Don’t let it go to your head.”

  From across the football field, a waiting bus driver sounded his horn. It was time to drive the Lincoln debating team back to Pennsylvania. Rose walked him across the football field.

  “Can I see you in three weeks?” Langston said.

  “Maybe. I’ll send you a note.”

  “My father got wind of our meeting. Your father let him know.”

  “What happened?” Rose said.

  “My father offered to send me to Harvard if I didn’t see you again.”

  “Aren’t you so very funny. But seriously, what happened?”

  “He didn’t want me to inconvenience or impose upon your parents. But he didn’t seem troubled by my interest in you. In fact, it seemed t
o humor him.”

  “How liberal of him,” Rose said. She blew him a kiss.

  Twice more, they met secretly in the spring of 1917. Rose made an effort never to mention Langston’s name, but Hazel Bridges knew that something was up. She had discovered that Langston Cane would be moving home for the summer break, and Baltimore was too close for comfort.

  One week after Rose’s classes ended, Hazel took her on a steamer to a colored people’s lodge near Arundel on the Bay. Hazel stuffed her luggage with crossword puzzles, books, and magazines — anything to distract her daughter. She also arranged for friends with eligible sons to arrive at the same time.

  The lodge was run by an old man — Captain Haynes — who had been receiving the Bridgeses and other families for fifteen years. The lodge had six guest rooms, a screened verandah with lounge chairs, and a sitting room with a fireplace that was kept roaring on cool spring nights. Captain Haynes served crab cakes and corn bread at breakfast. He served baked oysters at lunch, and he served soft-shell crab for supper. His cook made pies, strawberry shortcakes, and biscuits. They served lemonade, hot chocolate, milk, and all manner of juices. Wine and brandy were available for discreet purchase and consumption behind closed doors. There was badminton. There were sailboat rides. There was fiddle music and square dancing at night. There were long afternoons to pick soft-shell crabs right off the beach. There were boys from all sorts of colleges, staying with their mothers. Rose danced, ate, walked, sailed, finished a book every third night, and took horse-drawn rides to the local Catholic church, which admitted light-skinned Negroes such as Rose and her mother.

  After the month at the lodge, Hazel took Rose and Loretta to New York City to see relatives for two weeks. Then they stayed at another summer resort in Vermont for two weeks. That brought them to the end of July. And Langston, Hazel had learned through her husband, would be at his parents’ summer home near Frederick, Maryland, in August.

  Langston was unable to reach Rose in the summer, or in September. Finally, he wrote to her at her home:

  Dearest Rose:

  I miss you terribly. We all know what absence does to the heart. Could we see each other as soon as possible?

  They met on campus at Howard, in the second week of October. Langston felt sick to his stomach, he ached to see her so badly. And he felt worse when he saw her walk up to him cautiously. This was not a walk that carried with it a kiss. This was a hello-how-are-you-let’s-not-get-involved walk. She said she couldn’t see him again. She said the pressure was just too much from home, that it could never work out with such pressure. Her parents were dead set against it, his parents probably were, too, there were too many differences between them, it was best to let it drop.

  “Good-bye, Langston. Please don’t fight this. You’re a good man. Somebody will love you. You’ll make somebody very happy.”

  “I can’t even think of being with somebody else,” he told her. “We are made for each other, Rose. We belong together.”

  “Please don’t make this difficult, Langston.”

  “I’m afraid that I simply cannot accept the word good-bye. Not from you. Let me shake your hand. I will see you later.”

  He wrote to her at Howard. He wrote to her at home. He took the bus to D.C. twice and scoured the Howard University campus. Finally, he managed to have a message delivered to her through Ed Ryan, who had first brought him to the party at the Bridgeses’ residence.

  Two weeks before Christmas, Rose agreed to see him again. “You are the most persistent bull terrier that ever walked this planet,” she said. “You’re sweet.”

  “How devious of you to resurrect that word. But I’m not so sure about that mustache.”

  “It’s the price you pay for refusing to see me.” “Shave it off.”

  “It’s not so bad. Come here a minute.” “Well, for just a minute.”

  Her body just seemed to fit against his. She felt his hardness, right through his trousers. It aroused and terrified her.

  She was going to tell him one more time that it couldn’t work. But he beat her to the punch.

  “Rose, let’s sit down. I have something to tell you.”

  Rose wondered if the man was crazy enough to propose to her. Was he stark raving mad? Surely, he doesn’t think she would …

  “I’m going to enlist in the American Army. I’ll likely be sent overseas. So the best thing would be for us not to see each other again. But when I come back, if you’re still free … “

  “No! You’re just a boy. My boy! You’re not going away — not over there!”

  “We shouldn’t meet again. It’s not fair to you. But I do love you. And, as I said, when I come back — “

  “Do you know how many boys my mother threw at me this summer?”

  “How many?”

  “I lost count. But still I dream only of you.” “Don’t tell me that the prospect of war has turned you into a romantic.”

  Rose put her wrists up around Langston’s neck. Again, she felt his hardness. This time, she leaned into it. “Kiss me.”

  “If I don’t enlist, they will conscript me. But if I enlist early, I could make officer.”

  “You’re not going to any war.”

  “Yes, I am, Rose. We shouldn’t be doing this. I don’t want you hurt. I’d rather die than see you hurt.”

  “You talk too much. Do you know that? Turn this way. Look at me. Look in my eyes. What’s the matter? Scared of me? That’s better. Now. Pay close attention to what I have to say.” She brought her lips against his.

  In June 1917, Langston Cane the Third was one of 1,250 black men accepted into the colored officers’ training camp at Fort Des Moines, Iowa. It was considered a great honor to be accepted. Langston took careful note of the articles in the Negro press by Benjamin Curley, general secretary of the Central Committee of Negro College Men. Curley wrote: “There is a terrible responsibility resting upon us. The Government has challenged the Negro race to prove its worth, particularly the worth of its educated leaders. We must succeed and pour into the camp in overwhelming numbers. Let no man slack. Let us not mince matters; the race is on trial. It needs every one of its red-blooded, sober-minded men. Come to camp determined to make good. Up, brother, our race is calling.”

  Langston had to pay his own way to Iowa, but he was reimbursed at the rate of three and a half cents per mile traveled. He received seventy-five dollars a month in training, and knew that if he succeeded in winning a commission, he’d make at least $145 a month. Training lasted for four months. It included fitness, training in the science of war, instruction in French and German, and endless drills. Recruits were up at 5:45 a.m. doing sit-ups and push-ups. They ran two miles before breakfast, attended lectures after breakfast, and were put through hell by Colonel C. C. Ballou, his staff, and a group of colored non-commissioned officers from colored regiments of the regular army.

  At six o’clock one morning, while he was making his bed, Langston was interrupted by his sergeant.

  “Where is Private Barnes?”

  “He’s temporarily absent, Sergeant,” Langston said. “Will return momentarily.”

  “You haven’t answered my question, Private. Where, precisely, is Barnes?”

  “In a state of intestinal discharge,” Langston said. “Discharges have been frequent and intense since four a.m. Will provide other medical diagnosis if required, Sergeant.”

  The sergeant burst into laughter. “Thanks for the details, Private. At ease.”

  Barnes, whose bunk was next to Cane’s, hobbled into the barracks. He was looking down, fastening his zipper, when he bumped into the sergeant.

  “Sergeant! Didn’t see you!”

  “It is evident that you didn’t see me, Private. You’re advised not to speak the obvious, unless it is asked of you.”

  “Yes!”

  “At breakfast, Private, I want you to drink two glasses of juice and two glasses of water and eat nothing, is that understood?”

  “Yes.”

&n
bsp; “And after breakfast, Private, I want you to report to the infirmary and explain that I have ordered you to stay in bed for the day. Is that clear, Private Barnes?”

  “Yes.”

  “At ease, Private. Fasten your fly. And thank Private Cane for informing me about your frequent and intense discharges.”

  The men in the barracks burst into laughter. Barnes grinned sheepishly at Cane. The sergeant nodded at Cane. The men in the barracks, who had heard of Langston’s background, dubbed him the Reverend Doctor.

  Private Langston Cane aced his French tests. Trigonometry was a swindle, no sweat at all. Trig had been harder at Douglass High School in Baltimore. Keeping clean and polished was no difficulty. But Langston was falling behind in drill. The art of ordering soldiers in formation eluded him, and his superiors knew it. They were looking to fail about half the candidates in the camp. Everyone was fighting to make officer. Each soldier knew that emerging from camp with the single stripe of a private on his sleeve would be a major letdown for race and family. With just one stripe, it would be harder to find girls, harder to find jobs after the war, harder to stand tall and do whatever they wanted to do. Almost everyone at Fort Des Moines was college-educated, and everyone was gunning for a commission. From Colonel C. C. Ballou on down, the commanding officers were looking for any excuse — anything — to ax candidates from the running.

  Langston Cane the Third was on the verge of failing his drill test. The problem was the hollering. He had learned since boyhood that the art of persuasion lay in lowering one’s voice. When your message peaked, you decrescendoed. Forced your listeners to sit on the edge of their pews. But war was different. War required hollering. If you wanted fifty men to turn right, you didn’t lower your voice. The truck going by would drown you out. But Langston just couldn’t get drill right. Couldn’t project dignity and holler at the same time. The test had been two days ago, and he had blown it. They had given him fifty men in formation right before him, in an open field. Gave him a sheet of paper, with a penciled diagram. They let him look at it for one minute. He had one minute to memorize it. The field was a square. One short, thick line indicated where the soldiers were waiting in formation. The arrows indicated where Langston was to lead the men. North twenty yards. East twenty-five yards. North again for thirty yards. Turn 180 degrees. South fifteen yards. Turn 45 degrees. On one knee. Weapons out. Fire.